Chapter 7

"Are you decent?" Harlow asks, and I stare down at her, my eyebrows pinched because what the fuck kind of way is that to greet someone? Especially since we're out in public—the parking lot of the skating rink, to be precise—and it's barely four in the afternoon. And anyway, she's the one who knocked on my door—not of my bedroom or bathroom, but on the back of my van.

Why the hell wouldn't I be decent?

I don't even bother responding, because what? And just push open the door another inch. "What's up?"

Wearing the same clothes she wore to school earlier, Harlow shifts from one foot to the other. "I was waiting for you to come out, but…"

I check the time on my phone. "My shift doesn't start for another fifteen minutes."

"I know." She nods slowly. "I start at the same time."

Right. Because she works here now, and today's her first day, and Lana has instructed that I watch over Jonah while Jonah watches over her, which is going to be dope… not.

"Can we maybe talk a minute?" she asks, and she looks uncomfortable. Last time I saw her, she was smiling, laughing hysterically with her new friends—those cousins who live in a cult. I can't imagine those two girls saying anything funny, but who am I to judge?

Also, just between me, myself, and I…

I really like it when Harlow laughs.

Even more so when she smiles.

"Just give me a second," I tell her and then close the door between us. After saving my game and turning off the Switch, I throw it in my backpack along with my work shirt and whatever else I need. Then I lock the back of the van from the inside and exit through the driver's side door.

It takes Harlow a few seconds to realize what's happening, and as soon as she does, she makes her way toward me. I lean against the van, backpack at my feet. "So, what's up?" I ask once she's close enough to hear.

The parking lot is starting to fill with the usual after-school crowd, and I really don't want to be caught out here longer than I need to be. Sure, we can go inside, but that's where I work, not where I play. Not that Harlow and I are playing, and I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, but she's been quiet. Too quiet. And I'm getting nervous.

Finally, she asks, "Why haven't you told anyone about my mom? About what she did to you?"

This, I can answer. "Why would I?" I have nothing to gain from talking shit about anyone. It's half the reason I barely talk at all.

I thought that was all she wanted, but clearly I'm wrong because she's settling in beside me now, resting her back against my van. Hands splayed at her sides, her fingertips tap, tap, tapping at the metal, and she smells nice. Like flowers or spices or… something. "I spoke to Sammy today," she says.

I'm pretty sure Sammy is the dark-haired girl who's always reading. "Okay…"

"She told me that Newton, where most people from school are from, is a rich town…"

Not rich. Wealthy. But whatever. "And?"

"And a lot of the boys putting money on who can bag me are from Newton."

I sigh, ignoring the bile that rises to my throat at the thought of those motherfuckers coming near her. "So?"

"So… Sammy heard the cash pool was over five grand."

It's at seven now, if I'm not mistaken, which just proves that the world is full of morons who have way too much money to waste. "What about it?"

Harlow stands taller, though it doesn't really add much to her height. She's short, no more than 5'3", and maybe it's her shampoo I can smell. Huh. "I have a…" she trails off.

"A what?"

"A… proposition."

"That involves me?" I ask, and she nods.

"I wouldn't be here talking to you if it didn't."

I push off the van and pick up my backpack. "I'm really not interested." I start to walk away, but she grabs my arm, stopping me.

"Wait," she says, and I can hear the desperation in her voice. "Just listen, okay?"

I turn slowly, already annoyed with myself for giving in so easily, and for the next few seconds, we play this awkward game of not looking each other in the eye. "I need a car," she says out of nowhere.

"There's a dealership?—"

"No," she cuts in. "I don't have money for a car… which is where you come in."

Eyes narrowed, I mumble, "I'm so fucking lost." And I wish she'd get to the point because the longer we stand here, the more anxious I get. And the more anxious I get, the more frustrated I am, because I don't get anxious.

Unless I'm around her.

Harlow huffs out a breath, her jaw set tight, right before she states, "Fake fuck me."

I almost choke on my response. "What?"

"Fake fuck me," she repeats, as if I didn't hear her the first time.

I heard her just fine. Still, my response remains the same. "What?"

"You don't have to do anything. Just tell them we had sex in the back of your creepy van?—"

"My van is not creepy."

"—and give me the money. You get bragging rights, and I get a new car."

I sigh. "I'm a year away from playing college ball with a D1 school. Two years away from playing packed arenas as a pro." I'm not being cocky. Just stating facts. "I don't need bragging rights."

"Fine," she says, and I can tell she's getting heated. "I'll split it with you. 80/20."

"I get 80?"

She scoffs. "I'm the one getting railed in the back of your van. I think I deserve the majority. 70/30?"

I shake my head, done with her games. "I have a job, therefore, I have money. And all that aside, what part of you thinks I'd be down to cheat?"

"Cheat?" she repeats. "Oh, how morally noble of you." She rolls her eyes, and I like her.

I admit it.

But I hate that I like her.

Eighteen years I've lived in this town, ten of them practically alone, and I've liked it that way. I like knowing there's nothing to look back on and no one to look back to. The second that diploma's in my hand, I'm out, and I'm never looking back.

"Okay," she says, hands up between us. Her eyes shift, as if moving from one thought to the next. Then, suddenly, her gaze snaps to mine, her vision clear as day. "I got it," she says, and I crack the faintest of smiles. Nothing she says will convince me to agree to her shenanigans. "I'll let you use my half-court." Unless it's that. Before I can even open my mouth to retort, she continues, "My mom—she works nights at the moment. She leaves at around five-thirty every night, four nights a week. Sometimes more. Whenever she's not home, you can come and use it. I won't bother you. I swear. Just as long as you leave nothing behind, because my mom…" She shakes her head, clearing that thought. "And my dad, he's gone so much he won't even?—"

"Does that mean you'll give me my ball back?" I interrupt.

Her face flushes red in an instant, and she looks away, caught in a lie. "I told you, I don't have your ball."

I should call her out on it, but what would I say?

I saw you the night you moved in, sneaking out of your house to look for the ball. It didn't take you long to find it. You held it under your arm and walked back into the house and straight to your new bedroom—my old one. You went to the closet, if my childhood memories serve me correctly. It was lucky you left when you did. Had you been two minutes later, you would've seen your mom making out with your uncle, right before they went into his RV for the night.

I heave out a sigh, try to look her in the eyes, and, once again, I fail. "Can I think about it?"